


The Saturalia Truce

by Lulzy (likelolwhat)



Series: For the Love of a Meme [27]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Christmas Truce of 1914, Community: skyrimkinkmeme, Fantastic Racism, M/M, Mild Language, Racist Language, Saturalia, Skyrim Civil War, Skyrim Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-21 22:37:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13153470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likelolwhat/pseuds/Lulzy
Summary: When a group of very lost, very bewildered Stormcloaks stumble upon the Rift Imperial Camp on Saturalia, Legate Fasendil does the only non-monstrous thing and invites them to share camp for the holiday.But for his lover, Hadvar, there's a face out of the past among the Stormcloaks, and seeing Ralof for the first time since Helgen makes this a very awkward Saturalia.





	The Saturalia Truce

**Author's Note:**

> In response to [this](https://skyrimkinkmeme.livejournal.com/2438.html?thread=4342406#t4342406) kinkmeme prompt. Alas, it appears Page 4 wasn't poofed over to [Dreamwidth](https://skyrimkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/) with the rest.
> 
> I worked on this off and on over the course of two years, so if it comes off as slightly disjointed I apologize.

“Mara’s m-m-mercy, what are you doing?”

The “out here” was implied; the teeth-chattering was not. Hadvar took his eyes off the north road to find his lover behind him, wrapped in enough furs to make a bear three times over, with a few more piled on for good measure. Fasendil’s eyes peered out of his swaddling; it was the only part of his body visible.

Hadvar raised a brow but didn’t comment. It was a bit nippy. “Don’t you feel it?”

“What? The cold? Don’t you feel it?”

The Nord shrugged and glanced back toward the road. “Something is coming.” It was an eerily similar feeling as he got when he was a boy and looked up at the Barrow. Not that he would admit that — though his fear of draugr in the tomb was justified, they had remained in the tomb. This was different, and worse.

“Not warmer weather, I take it.” Fasendil sighed and stepped up to the palisade, peering through the drifting snow.

Ulfric would not be holding a winter’s war, to the great relief of all involved. Though the Legion was mostly Nords, their training was ill-suited to fighting through the season. No grand campaigns would be waged, no generals would take the field. Skirmishes continued, of course, but mostly the soldiers of both sides sat huddled around their fires, red noses buried in tankards. That’s where their scouts were, currently. The temperature kept dropping as Saturalia approached, and it looked to be a lonely one for the soldiers. Haemar’s Pass was blocked by an avalanche off Snow-Throat, slowing their couriers to every other week. Fasendil had ordered the scouts to stay in camp unless absolutely necessary, after the first disappearance.

They had enough supplies to ride out the winter. It wasn’t close to the harshest season Hadvar alone had seen, and he had lived through that. But it was worse than any for Fasendil, as he had only been in Skyrim since the War began.

“We’ll be fine, love,” Hadvar murmured, leaning against the fur-encased Altmer next to him.

The feeling didn’t ease, though. Saturalia was only a few days away, a bit of joy before they hunkered down for the Morning Star storms. If the storms came early, the holiday would be spent digging, not drinking.

* * *

 O<>O<>O

* * *

 Saturalia dawned off-white, a thick mist rolling off the Jeralls and enveloping the valley in low-lying ice fog. Hadvar and Fasendil awoke and immediately decided to stay in bed as long as possible. “Well, at least it’s not windy,” Hadvar joked, pecking Fasendil on the lips before tucking himself under the mer’s chin.

They’d both dozed off until a muffled shout came from outside the tent.

In a flurry they were out of bed and strapping on their chest armor, shoving on their boots and grabbing swords on the way out. Hadvar burst from the tent first, certain he would find a cowardly ambush in progress.

The fog had let up a bit, allowing them just enough visibility to see Auxillary Keldjen standing shock-still, one hand still around his cock, gaping at an equally astonished Stormcloak not ten paces away.

“What in Oblivion—” Fasendil started, pointing his sword at the intruder.

While the Legate circled around toward the Stormcloak, Hadvar came up next to the Auxillary, whose deathgrip on his member wasn’t loosening. Keldjen glanced at him, and Hadvar met his eyes. Then, pointedly, down.

“Oh fuck,” he blurted, and hurriedly tucked himself back in, face as red as if he had wandered into a Chapel of Dibella by accident.

“Go get your sword, soldier,” Hadvar ordered calmly. The rest of the camp had stirred and were gathering around, weapons at the ready.

The Stormcloak didn’t seem all that ready for a skirmish, though, or to turn tail. He seemed stunned that he was in the middle of a Legion camp in the first place. He was dressed in the uniform of a common footsoldier, with a rough wolf-fur cloak and hide boots worn thin at the toes. He blinked at Fasendil as the Legate inched closer, barking orders and questions by sword-point. It was as if he couldn’t understand what Fasendil was saying—

Then twelve more bedraggled Stormcloaks stumbled out of the fog, and they were equally bewildered for a long moment.

One of the legionnaires coughed, and the world moved again.

“Whoa, whoa whoa!” Hadvar shouted above the shing of drawn swords. He started forward, laying a hand on Fasendil’s arm and holding the other, empty-palmed, to the Stormcloaks. “Hold on, we don’t need to fight right now.”

Fasendil turned an incredulous gaze on his lover, but Hadvar, as usual, won out. “Turn around now and go back where you came from, and we will leave you be,” the Legate offered, commander’s voice rising above the uneasy murmurs running through the ranks of both sides.

The Stormcloak commander scowled, but stayed his hand. And his ground. “As if we would run like cowards, goldsk—”

“Hadvar?”

A jolt ran up his spine. He knew that voice. And, sure as the sun, it was Ralof pushing his way forward. And he was smiling, the bastard.

“Hadvar, it is you! What are the chances?”

Both excellent and remote, actually. Skyrim was a big place, but there were only so many legionnaires. “Hello, Ralof.”

Fasendil glanced at Hadvar, the guarantee that there would be a discussion later. He hadn’t gotten around to that part of his life yet. Perhaps he should have disclosed his previously intimate relationship with a Stormcloak, but really, at this point nearly every Skyrim-born legionnaire had known one at some point.

“Lieutenant Ralof, you know him?” the commander asked, and Ralof shrugged. Smooth as ever.

“Yes, and he’s damned good—” Ralof winked at his former lover, not even bothering to be discrete, “so I suggest we not press our luck further.”

The commander looked Hadvar over, then bent closer to Ralof and a huddled discussion commenced.

Hadvar turned to Fasendil, but the Legate had his ‘stormcloud face’ on, mouth drawn down. Anyone else would likely think the Legate furious, even homicidal, but Hadvar had come to know it as a ponderous visage. His Legate was thinking hard. Hadvar swallowed, dreading what would have Fasendil so conflicted.

“Commander,” Fasendil finally said, a heavy dose of reluctance and resignation in his voice, “I wish to extend the offer of hospitality to you. For Saturalia.”

“What?” Hadvar and Ralof exclaimed at the same time, both of them whipping around to face the Legate, the blond nearly hitting his commander in the face.

Fasendil gave a short sigh. “It is Saturalia today, is it not? Let us lay down our arms for the holiday. In the morning the war will commence, as it must, but in the meantime… Look, you’re obviously lost and in need of rest, supplies, and warmth. No, don’t give me that look, I’ve enough experience with Nord pride, thank you. Just think about it. We’ve enough food and drink for you all.”

“Mead?” the commander asked, eyebrows so tight as to be one.

“Most of us are Nords,” Hadvar said softly, not quite warming to the idea of sharing camp with Stormcloaks but needing to back Fasendil up. “We’ve even got a few Honningbrew Reserves, from before Black-Briar took over.” He knew about the politics of mead; Black-Briar was swill, but swill that scrapped to the top by kicking everything else down. Honningbrew was just the longest-lasting competitor, and the hardest to fell. Within the year Honningbrew bottles would be dwindling reminders of a time gone by, and the Reserves collectors’ items.

The Stormcloaks knew this too, and perhaps this was what swayed them, or the bleak prospect of heading back into the fog. Regardless, the commander glanced at his men, including a bright-eyed (perhaps, fever-bright) Ralof, and trudged the last few steps to stand before Fasendil. “Talos preserve me, I can’t believe I’m doing this. If you swear you won’t slaughter us all in our sleep…”

Hadvar tensed. He would be wary too, in the Stormcloak’s position, but he’d be damned if he’d let anyone impugn Fasendil’s freely-given guest-right. But before he could speak, Fasendil shifted slightly, brushing his arm against Hadvar’s.

“All right,” the Legate said calmly. He bowed his head and made the sign of invocation. “I swear upon my honor as a godsfearing mer. May Stendarr condemn me to the deepest, darkest pit in Oblivion should I fail in my duties as host. Come, join us.”

* * *

 O<>O<>O

* * *

“I could eat a mammoth,” Ralof moaned, clutching his stomach, as they walked into the camp proper.

Hadvar rolled his eyes. “Been lost a while, I take it.”

“We were not lost! We just got a bit off course in the fog.”

“Uh-huh. For how many days?”

“Eh. Three. All right, fine, we got lost. The fog settled in so thick we couldn’t see our own hands!”

Fasendil was eying them. Hadvar sighed — it was a problem, this familiarity. He and Ralof had settled right back into their banter from before the schism, as if nothing had happened. But everything had happened, and it wasn’t like Akatosh would turn back the years anytime soon. And he still needed to talk to Fasendil.

Though the fog still hung in the air, it had cleared enough to see across the firepit, and an Auxillary set to work building a roaring blaze as others went to grab blankets, food and mead at Fasendil’s direction. The cooking pot was set up with a stew bubbling merrily away, and the soldiers were tearing into a late breakfast of dried venison, bread, cheese and copious amounts of mead. Soon, the worst of the tension bled away, and someone started up a game that involved increasingly embarrassing childhood stories. Hadvar listened to the chatter for a while, swigging from his bottle of mead, but mostly letting his mind wander. It was strange to be here, not only on a foggy Saturalia morning in a Legion camp that had gained a few temporary Stormcloaks, but with Ralof of all people. He kept circling back to that.

And, as he always knew would happen, Ralof sought him out in the crowd and plopped down next to him, shoving a fresh bottle into his hands and taking a pull of his own.

It was a long moment before he spoke. “So.”

“Yeah?” Hadvar peered at the bottle. A Reserve. He wished Ralof would just say what he needed to say. Get it over with.

“You and the Legate?”

Hadvar turned his head, certain that he would find — something — but no, Ralof’s head was tilted slightly, his tell, and his voice had only held honest curiosity. Well. “Yes. Legate Fasendil. A few months now. It’s— it’s good.” Gods, he was rambling.

Ralof nodded. “Good. For the record—”

“I know. You don’t have to say it, Ralof.” For the record, I regret it. For the record, I remember us fondly. For the record, sometimes I wish I still loved you, if only because that would mean this damned war had never happened.

Ralof nodded again, and they lapsed into silence for a while, as the fireside chatter continued around them and their grief hung as heavy as the fog.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. “For Helgen.”

“Oh,” Ralof said, with a nervous laugh, “I’m sorry too. I had a few unkind things to say when that girl ran after you. And when I found out she was the Dragonborn, I said many more.”

“I was surprised she did, really. In her position, not knowing anything else, the Legion would look awful. Without the dragon, I would have stood by for her death. She was an innocent, and I—” His throat closed up, and he swallowed hard, bottle held in a white-knuckle grip against his knee. The wind had shifted, of course, that was why his eyes were prickling.

Ralof patted his hand, and here he was a boon: Ralof had the experience to know a steadying presence was all Hadvar needed or wanted when his emotions got the better of him. He’d been called weak, as a child, but his uncle had told him that compassion separates men from monsters. Still, it was a sore point, and not one he’d shown Fasendil yet. The mer had probably guessed anyway.

“You know,” Ralof said, watching the logs crackle under the onslaught of the fire they fed, “I’ve been lucky enough not to face another dragon after that. Seen plenty, heard their great flapping and roaring from a distance over the mountains, but never again been that close. I have run into far too many draugr, though.” He shuddered, mouth twisting in a visceral reaction that Hadvar knew well. “Just— wandering about in daylight!”

With a grunt of agreement, Hadvar shook his head. “We both have been pretty lucky, all things considered. There’s a dragon roost south of here, but I have yet to see it do anything but nap and fly around behind the tower. Probably hunting goats.”

“Still, best to avoid it.”

Hadvar scoffed. Ralof had changed so little and yet so much. “Remember that spring Gerdur had to drag us up north to kill our ice wraiths? Why did we delay it so long? Oh, I remember. You kept daring me to go closer and closer to the barrow and completely forgot when your own name day was.”

Ralof guffawed, smacking Hadvar hard on the back. “You got bitten by a skeever!” he huffed out between bursts of laughter. “And then when we finally became men, you didn’t even get any scars from that! You have scars from a skeever but not the ice wraith? Some luck.”

“Scars are scars,” Hadvar grumbled. Ralof’s were beautiful — thin silver lines across his forearms and the backs of his hands, scars that told a story and proved without a doubt that he had fought an ice wraith. Hadvar had plenty of his own, but none like those. He could recall each of them, true enough; they wouldn’t tell the tale by themselves.

“All right, all right. Got any new ones? Most of mine are from trying to whittle, unfortunately.”

“A few, but you can imagine where they came from, so I’d rather not talk about it.”

Ralof twitched. “Shit. You’re right,” he breathed. “I guess I wanted so badly for— for this to last. But tomorrow is another day.”

“Another damn day.”

A presence appeared at Hadvar’s back, moments before Fasendil circled around, shielding his eyes from the smoke. He had that ponderous expression on his face again, and at his side, Ralof tensed. “You’re Ralof, then,” he said, glancing away across the fire when an eruption of laughter from the soldiers there drew his attention. Hadvar knew, then; Fasendil had to remain standing as the commanding officer in a camp half-populated by Stormcloaks, but he was also fully aware that he could be seen as looming over them. So he stood on the other side of Hadvar, farther away than he could have been, and allowed his eyes to sweep over the camp and not linger on Ralof too long. “Have you known each other a long time?”

“Aye,” Ralof said slowly. “Grew up together.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you reunited under these circumstances, if only for a day.”

Hadvar coughed, smiling. “It’s fine, love. He knows.” Continuing this stiff formality would help no one.

The tension left Fasendil like blood seeping from a cut. “Oh, good. Good… If you would be so kind as to not breathe a word of it to your fellows, though—”

Ralof grinned, waving his free hand airily before slapping Hadvar on the back again. “Not a word. That would be a tough position for anyone, eh?”

Hadvar looked between them, old lover and new, and let the breath he’d been holding out to join the fog. For now, at least, it was a good Saturalia.

* * *

 O<>O<>O

* * *

The quartermaster drew Fasendil away — something about repairing the Stormcloaks’ more damaged gear and where exactly they were going to get enough food to feed the camp into Morning Star, if they were giving their stores away to “blueboys” now — and the pair of them were left alone again. Across the fire, a group of soldiers at varying levels of intoxication were roaring out as many non-political tavern songs as they could think of. (They kept circling back to “Ragnar the Red”.) Nearby, an impromptu exchange had been set up at some point, with Auxillary Myrine and a Stormcloak archer offering to get messages and small gifts to family across enemy lines. Myrine’s list was as long as she was tall, and the archer was, at that moment, helping an Imperial scout sort his thoughts into a letter.

Ralof lapsed into an unusual silence, staring at the dancers across the fire without really seeing them, empty bottle forgotten in his hand. Hadvar knew better than to interrupt any reflection, but it did make him nervous — a persistent thought nibbling at the back of his head like a rodent — that he, too, was thinking of tomorrow, when everything would go back to normal. Cruel, trepidatious normal. Akatosh, don’t let morning come too early.

“Ah, might as well,” Ralof muttered, then before Hadvar could blink he was hauled up by a stronger-than-ever arm and Ralof was half-dragging him around the fire, toward the tents. Hadvar’s heart crawled up intro his throat and his stomach plummeted, but Ralof continued on, and his internal organs returned, if not to their correct positions, then to the general vicinity. Keldjen, sprawled on his back behind the tents and waving his bottle around as he chattered at an audience of none, was a temporary obstacle, but then they were clear of the camp proper and Hadvar finally saw what Ralof was bringing him to.

It was a jump-kick, from the looks of it: a game that Hadvar had only played once, when he was a boy. He had been surprisingly good at it, but he doubted he would be now. The target, a lumpy ball of deersgut stuffed with leaves, hung suspended by a rope flung over a tree branch, making an adjustable pulley. Which was good: the ball was currently at an impossible height by Hadvar’s reckoning, though that didn’t stop the two soldiers, a Stormcloak and Auxillary Ludo, of all people, currently taking turns trying to kick it with both feet. They weren’t bothering with the landing rules, which made it a bit easier, but neither had managed to come closer than an inch away.

“Jana!” Ralof called just as the Stormcloak leapt up. Startled, one foot struck out farther than the other, and the ball bounced with the force of her kick. Jana flailed, landing flat on her back in the snow. She blinked up at them for a moment, ignoring Ralof’s offered hand and sheepish grin.

“Sorry, Jana. But hey, you hit it?”

With a roll of her eyes she flipped her legs up and shot to her feet. She shook the snow off her uniform, giving Hadvar no more than a cursory glance before pointing up at the ball. “Would you like to try, oh mighty hunters?”

And that was how Hadvar found himself, some time later, with two misses, four botched landings, and six near-flawless jump-kicks under his belt, finally deciding he was far too sober to attempt the new challenge the others had set for him. The ball was level with the branch, far higher than he could jump even if he wasn’t tired and his joints weren’t creaking like a man three times his age. Best quit while he was ahead.

Ludo and Jana wandered off, shaking their heads and muttering darkly, and Ralof glanced up from where he sat cross-legged on the ground, picking away at a bit of wood with his knife. “You haven’t been practicing in secret this entire time, have you?”

Hadvar wobbled over, letting his shaky legs and unamused stare speak for themselves.

Ralof shrugged and put away his carving. “Ah, I guess that’s a ‘no’.”

“What were you working on?” The fog had cleared completely at some point, and the weak winter sun, while hidden behind the mountains, still gave off just enough light to see by. Hadvar stretched, popping his back.

“Eh, present for my nephew, whenever I see him next. We all lost track of the days while we were lost, didn’t know it was Saturalia until the good Legate said so,” Ralof admitted as he rose and came to stand by Hadvar, their shoulders brushing. “What about your family? Little Dorthe must miss you.”

“Yeah.” He thought of his cousin’s present: a book on Redguard smithing techniques that he’d picked up from the Khajiit caravaners some months ago. Both the present itself and where it had come from were best left unsaid. He did envy Ralof, though — that the Stormcloak was a craftsman, even just as a hobby, and could make his gifts himself. Hadvar felt clumsy and unimaginative by comparison. Still, he hoped Dorthe liked the book. “I haven’t seen her in a while, but she was already starting in on learning from Uncle Alvor last time. She’ll make a fine smith.”

“I’m sure she will. Frodnar wants to be a Stormcloak, but—”

“I hope this war doesn’t last that long,” Hadvar muttered.

Ralof smiled, but he couldn’t keep it on. “Me too.”

* * *

 O<>O<>O

* * *

Hours later, the fire was blazing brighter than ever, valiantly fighting the darkness and casting dancing shadows over the entire camp. Most of the soldiers, Stormcloak and Legionnaires alike, had long since retreated to their bedrolls. All the tents except for Fasendil’s were full past capacity, piles of sleeping men and women curled up into each other. Several were snoring.

Fasendil had snagged the last Honningbrew Reserve for himself, and due to the late hour decided he could sit down at last. The Stormcloak commander, whose name Fasendil still didn’t know and didn’t want to know, had retired, which was the only reason he was allowing himself a drink and a bit of relaxation. Because the aurora on the northern horizon was faint, and Masser was new (of Secunda only a sliver was visible), the stars were out in their full glory. It was rare to see them as vivid as they were now, and Fasendil amused himself by finding all the constellations. The Serpent was far from the others, mostly covered by the aurora, and while Fasendil was no astronomer he figured this was a good portent.

Raucous laughter arose from the small group left awake, and Fasendil glanced away from the skies. That blond Stormcloak — Ralof — was laughing loudest, evidently more than tipsy, and Hadvar was right next to him, cheeks ruddy with intoxication and perhaps a bit of embarrassment. But he was laughing too, so Fasendil didn’t worry.

He wasn’t stupid, or blind. There was something between them, some kind of shared history more than “grew up together”, but Hadvar wasn’t ready to tell that story and Fasendil wouldn’t push it. He could guess well enough. And while the slightest bit of jealousy pricked at his heart when he saw them together, he tried his best to tamp it down. He wasn’t Hadvar’s jailor, and they proved their devotion to each other many times over. At the end of the day, he trusted his love.

So when he did finally crawl into bed, the watch sorted out, the camp in order, and the quartermaster mollified, he was not worried. Sure as the sun, just as he was about to fall asleep he heard the tent flap slide back, careful footsteps approach, and Hadvar’s soft lips brush against his temple. “Can’t stay,” he murmured into Fasendil’s hair, and Fasendil smiled in response. Alas, it was true. It was risky, even, to do this now. If word got out… But he wouldn’t think about it.

“I love you,” he said sleepily.

Hadvar swooped in for another peck, this time on his ear. He dodged back in time to avoid getting hit in the face by the twitching tip, muffling laughter when Fasendil opened his eyes and fixed him with a cross look — one that he couldn’t keep for long, of course.

“Don’t do that if you can’t follow up,” Fasendil teased.

The Nord smiled gently. “Sorry. I love you too.”

The look in his eyes was too tender, and Fasendil was too tired. “Things will go back to normal tomorrow,” he mused. It was bittersweet — a return to normal, the camp becoming a well-oiled automaton again, no immediate tension. No, the tension would move to the outside looking in, a sabre-cat at the door. He wasn’t sure which was worse. At least with the Stormcloaks in the camp he could keep them where he could see them.

“Yes,” Hadvar replied, a touch of melancholy in his voice, and slipped out the tent as soon as their goodnights were exchanged.

* * *

 O<>O<>O

* * *

Morning came faster than anyone would have thought, dawning bright and early with a gentle snowfall. The Stormcloaks were gathered at the north entrance, with patched armor and enough supplies to last them to Ivarstead at the least, shuffling their feet and pointedly not looking at the surrounding landmarks.

“Goodbye, then,” Ralof said, eyes sad.

Hadvar swallowed hard. “Goodbye. I hope— I hope if we meet again it is in Sovngarde.”

Ralof twitched, as if he was about to reach for Hadvar’s forearm to clasp, but ultimately shuffled backward without another word, standing by his commanding officer.

Fasendil and the Stormcloak commander nodded at each other, jaws set, and then they were turning as a group and marching toward the road. They got all of three steps before Ralof peeled off from the group and jogged back, blushing furiously. He seized Hadvar’s hand and pressed something into his palm. “For you,” was all he said before he ran off again, this time without so much as a backward glance.

Blinking stupidly, Hadvar slowly looked down at the object. It was a little wooden skeever.

As soon as the Stormcloaks were down the road, and out of earshot, Fasendil put his hands on his hips and turned around. “Well, time to move camp,” he said with a sigh.


End file.
